


Anyone Who Knew Anything

by bluetenant



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, fair warning- i have taken some liberties with canon, written for garashir week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetenant/pseuds/bluetenant
Summary: Anyone who was at all familiar with Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir and his lunch companion, Mr. Elim Garak- their regular literature debates are the main draw of business to Fontaine’s over the middle of the day. The hidden truths of their relationship, too, are well-known to those who watch them.





	Anyone Who Knew Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This is a human au, so Garak is a human and Cardassia is a country on Earth, but other than that the exact details of the au don't really matter. No real literature was harmed in the making of this fic.

**i. a most interesting new friend**

Though he’d only been practicing medicine in the area for four months, anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir. He came in for lunch there nearly every day of the week, unless a pressing medical emergency barred him, and everyone had the dubious pleasure of talking with him at least once. The man was gregarious, with a sunny smile and awkward charm, but he was plagued by an inability to ever, ever shut up that was amusing at best and mildly abrasive at worst. Despite that, Dr. Bashir was cautiously well-liked by Fontaine’s lunch crowd. That was why, when Elim Garak stepped into the cafe, glanced around briefly, and then made a beeline for the doctor, a startled and rather concerned hush fell over all assembled.

Anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s also knew of Elim Garak. He was a tailor, owned a shop across the road, and his wares were top-notch. But nobody trusted him. His movements were just a little too smooth and his mind was a little too clever for him to just be a tailor like he always insisted, and conversation with him felt like a battle that he always won. Rumor had it the man was from Cardassia, though his accent would never give it away, and if you caught the barkeep at just the right time she’d tell you that rumor also had it that he _couldn’t go back_. Everyone in the know gave him a wide berth, just in case, though nobody had bothered to warn the doctor to do the same. Sometimes talking to the doctor was difficult, as politeness seemed to fly completely over his head, and nobody wanted to be caught gossiping about the tailor, just in case. Garak never visited Fontaine’s during the lunch hour, anyway, so why bother?

The restaurant watched, near silent, as the tailor approached the doctor. On his part, Bashir was completely unaware, engrossed in a massive old book with a faded cover that nobody in Fontaine’s could recognize from a hole in the wall. The doctor’s literature habit was the only thing that could ever get him to stop talking, and the lunch crowd usually was grateful to see the doctor arrive with a book tucked under his arm. His favorites weren’t always in the mood for conversation, but saying no to him was difficult. “Like kicking a puppy,” everyone agreed.

Garak stopped next to the doctor’s table and stared down at him. He seemed to have forgotten his food in favor of reading- Bashir’s customary sandwich, ham and cheddar on wheat, sat on a plate pushed off to the side with only one bite missing, and his glass of iced tea was untouched and sweating condensation across the table. 

He read on, oblivious, and Garak quirked a brow. “Excuse me,” he said, mild, and the doctor damn near jumped out of his skin.

All around the restaurant, patrons stifled their amusement as the doctor blinked in confusion and swung his gaze around to Garak, whose smirk could be mistaken for a smile. “Oh dear me. I do hope I’m not disturbing you overmuch.”

The doctor searched uselessly for something to say and, after a long moment of opening and closing his mouth, gave up. It was the first time anyone in Fontaine’s had ever seen him lost for words.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” the tailor continued, politely ignoring the doctor’s floundering, “that you enjoy classic literature, much like myself.” Then he paused for a moment and gasped, eyes comically wide. “Where are my manners? I am-”

“Mr. Garak,” Dr. Bashir interrupted, eager to finally get a word in. “I’ve heard of you- your clothes are quite good, if anyone trusts you enough to step foot in your shop.”

Sharp inhales and murmurs of dismay echoed around the restaurant, though nobody groaned louder at the tactless statement than the doctor himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head, immediately apologetic, and everyone could see him flushing behind his hands. Luckily, the tailor didn’t appear to be offended, as he simply chuckled and took a seat in the chair across the table from the doctor. The contrast between them was striking- the doctor, wearing rumpled scrubs and sprawled over his chair, and the prim and proper tailor, sitting neatly upright.

“I see my reputation precedes me. But I am a simple tailor, nothing more.” Then Garak gestured to the book that sat open on the table. “Tell me, doctor, what is your opinion of the narrator’s preference for the color blue?”

Dr. Bashir, and indeed everyone in Fontaine’s, blinked in confusion. But the doctor rallied, rambling for nearly five minutes about the book that nobody else in the restaurant had ever heard of.

Then Garak raised a brow and demolished the doctor’s analysis in three neat sentences.

The doctor’s jaw dropped, face the absolute image of outrage. “Now you see here, Mr. Garak!” he protested, and they spent the next three quarters of an hour embroiled in a passionate argument over the book on the table as the rest of the cafe looked on in a potent mixture of abject confusion and extreme interest. The two of them left together, still bickering, and as soon as the doors swung shut behind them the restaurant burst into a flurry of conversation.

**ii. waiting games**

Before anyone knew it, the doctor and the tailor had established a pattern. Once a week they met for lunch and discussed literature, though their discussions really were mostly arguments. The rest of the usual crowd at Fontaine’s established a pattern too- one of observation. Something in the tailor seemed to loosen, just a little, when he was with the doctor, and somehow the doctor’s roughest edges were blunted by the tailor. They sat at their favorite table, in the warm glow of the sun, and argued, blind to the watchful eyes and ears of the restaurant. Occasionally Bashir was detained by his patients and arrived late or not at all, interrupting his own routine, and the tailor’s analysis was particularly cutting those days, displeasure plain to those accustomed to looking. 

Rumors spread, like always, but nobody knew anything conclusive. Despite the emotions that flitted constantly across the doctor’s face, he was remarkably difficult to read properly, and it seemed nobody but the doctor himself could even begin to comprehend Mr. Garak.

Someone suggested that maybe that was evidence enough, but he was quickly shushed by the rest of the lunch crowd. They would all know it when they saw it, but not a second before then.

**iii. sunshine**

Dr. Bashir was a perpetual optimist, always seeing the best in characters and their motives and arguing doggedly for happy, or at least hopeful, endings. Mr. Garak, by contrast, was only ever able to see gloom and doom in the novels he and his lunch companion read.

“My dear doctor,” he would say, and the barkeep would add a mark to the official tally. “You are entirely too generous.”

“My dear Mr. Garak,” Bashir would rebut, smile shining in the summer sun, and up crept the tally again. “You’re far too much a miser. But don’t worry- I can change that.”

**iv. close encounters**

“I must confess,” said Garak, like the words were being pulled from him beyond his control, “I find myself agreeing- this tale does, indeed, end well for the leading lady and her suitor.”

Bashir beamed and reached across the table for Garak’s hand, and to everyone’s shock, the tailor actually allowed it.

**v. shadows**

The next week, Garak waited nearly three hours for Bashir to arrive, and the furrow between his brows grew deeper and deeper as each minute passed. The light of the sun, which usually fell evenly over their regular table, had completely abandoned Garak by the time he gave up and stormed back to his tailoring shop.

He left his book behind.

**vi. dashed**

The barkeep scooped up the book for safekeeping in the lost and found behind the bar. Curious, she flipped through the novel, just to see if she could understand or even enjoy the dense literature the doctor and tailor argued over so passionately.

“Oh no,” she breathed. Page after page was annotated in Garak’s spidery hand, pointing out symbols of hope. The final annotation, a particularly long paragraph at the end of the last page of the novel, was scribbled out with dark black ink, as if it had personally offended the tailor with its mere existence, and the barkeep couldn’t help but wonder at the dashed possibilities.

**vii. do no harm**

Rumor at Fontaine’s had it that Dr. Bashir had lost a patient that day, and that was what kept him from meeting Garak. The barkeep shook her head sadly. When questioned why, she said, “He may have lost far more than that.”

**viii. a matter of time**

It was a long, long time before either the doctor or the tailor came back to the restaurant.

Fortunately for business, and for each other, they did come back. Eventually.

**ix. last call**

The lunch crowd had to grudgingly admit they liked Doctor Bashir more than anticipated when his presence during the midday meal was actually missed. Fontaine’s seemed too empty and quiet without the doctor’s perpetual babbling, and of course, some of the appeal of lunch was gone now that his arguments with the tailor had ceased. Everyone was worried about him, and none moreso than the doctor’s favorites. Gradually, slowly, they hatched a plan to coax the man back.

When Bashir returned to Fontaine’s, it was nighttime, and for the first time in the restaurant’s memory, the man wasn’t wearing scrubs or a white doctor’s coat. His off-duty clothes were well-worn and several years out of style, and the brittle expression on his usually smiling face didn’t vanish until he’d played three rounds of darts and drank two brightly-colored cocktails. Even then, everyone could tell that his good mood wouldn’t last. When his favorites- his friends- eventually had to return home to their families and happiness, the doctor remained behind until last call, sitting beneath a flickering hanging light at the bar with his head in his hands.

**x. bashir, alone**

After that, the doctor drifted back to lunches, like his presence in Fontaine’s was inevitable. Nobody dared ask about the tailor, for risk of offending him or upsetting him, and he was quieter and more rumpled than usual, sad lines worn around the corners of his mouth when he thought nobody was looking and a wistful quality to his voice in quieter moments. He begun haunting a different table, hidden away out of sight from where he used to sit with Garak, but his new corner seat was still illuminated by the sun.

**xi. concerning garak**

The restaurant had been able to convince Bashir to return, but they couldn’t say the same for Mr. Garak. Nobody even knew if the tailor was still in town until the barkeep bravely ventured to the man’s shop and caught sight of him sewing in front of a window. He wasn’t trusted, not really, but his friendship with the doctor had improved his standing with the lunch crowd enough that even his harshest critics couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. After all, Bashir had been the man’s only friend, and if he really was an exile, as rumor suggested, then he’d lost everything a second time. So when he finally emerged from hiding and came to Fontaine’s one midmorning, ordering a tea drink no one remembered him ordering before, well, was it any surprise that everyone had something to say about it? It was eventually agreed that Garak came back more polished, sharper than he’d ever been, dark hair slicked back and pale blue eyes filled with vicious mockery whenever anyone so much as thought of approaching him, and he gave lunch and therefore Doctor Bashir a wide berth. But Bashir kept odd hours, and avoiding lunch was no real guarantee of also avoiding the doctor.

The usual easy flow of conversation stuttered to a momentary stop when the door opened on one overcast fall day to reveal the doctor, scrambling in later than usual. Garak, sitting at the bar and poking at a garden salad, stiffened ever so slightly, and otherwise gave no indication of acknowledging the doctor’s presence. Bashir ordered the first thing off the lunch menu and spent his whole meal staring at Garak’s back with big wounded eyes, completely oblivious to the rest of the restaurant. 

Once the doctor and the tailor had gone, the cafe burst into speculative conversation. Surely, the consensus went, the tailor would never come back, now that he’d encountered the doctor.

The lunch crowd had never been more wrong, or more glad to be.

**xii. fall**

Though Doctor Bashir and Mr. Garak had returned to their old table and literature discussions, it was obvious to everyone in the know that things were not the same. The doctor stammered more, backpedaling and giving in far too easily when Garak pushed him, and the tailor was far too cutting and cruel to truly enjoy discussion for its own sake. The changing fall weather didn’t help either. Cloudy days cast long and heavy shadows across the table, adding weight to every awkward and frosty silence that would’ve before been filled by easy conversation.

Behind the bar, the tally board was dusty and neglected from lack of use, and every bet over the date of the next appearance of the elusive endearment ‘my dear’ fell through without success. The patrons, discontent, looked helplessly to the bartender for some plan of action, but she shook her head. They’d done all they could. The rest, now, was up to the doctor and the tailor.

**xiii. handle with care**

“I think the flocks of birds the author describes in the last third of the novel represent faith,” Dr. Bashir argued.

Garak rolled his eyes and scoffed. He was particularly prickly these days, and needed careful handling that not even the kind doctor could always provide. “Doctor, you are an optimist. Those birds represent faith disappearing- they do fly away, do they not?”

The restaurant, breath bated, froze in anticipation of the doctor’s response.

Bashir was undeterred by his companion’s bad attitude, and he offered the tailor a regretful smile. “Just because we don’t see faith doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Garak had a lot to say about that, but the doctor could not be swayed.

**xiv. found**

“I believe,” said Garak to the barkeep, during one of his early morning visits, “I left a book here, quite a while ago. Could you check for it?”

The barkeep nodded and headed into the back office, lingering a moment to pretend to search for the book she knew sat in a place of honor in the cafe’s lost and found, before picking the novel up reverently and returning it to the man waiting patiently at the bar.

The tailor gave her a peculiar little nod of his head and set off for his shop, book clutched tightly to his chest.

**xv. know it when you see it**

Anyone who was at all familiar with Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir and his lunch companion, Mr. Elim Garak- they had been a fixture of the cafe’s lunch hour for ages, and were indeed perhaps the main draw of business to Fontaine’s over the middle of the day.

“- really now, you can’t possibly be saying the ships symbolize the end of the world!” Dr. Bashir protested, hands waving wildly. Mr. Garak, in contrast, was perfectly cool and collected as usual, observing his lunch companion with the faintest hint of a smirk.

“My dear doctor,” Garak started, and all of the restaurant inhaled. Under tables, coins and bills and IOUs changed hands, and the barkeep incremented the official tally, but Dr. Bashir and Mr. Garak continued their discussion, oblivious. They always were. “If you would simply place your antiquated notions of literature aside and take advantage of a broader perspective, you would easily see the true meaning of those ships as simply apocalyptic.”

Dr. Bashir scowled, though the almighty mess he made of his fluffy hair ruined the effect. “My perspective is plenty broad, although I couldn’t say the same of yours.” He settled back in his seat, taking an aggressive bite of his sandwich- turkey and swiss on rye. 

Garak quirked a brow and leaned forward. “Oh?” he challenged.

Bashir swallowed hard and slammed his sandwich down. Turkey spilled out between slices of bread as the doctor mirrored his companion’s posture, save for his elbows on the table. “Yes,” he insisted, meeting Garak’s eyes without blinking.

A hush fell over the cafe. At the bar, the barkeep quickly and efficiently took bets. She had her routine down to a science by now, after much practice.

“Do enlighten me.”

Bashir grinned, hazel eyes sparking with fire. “From the very first chapter,” he began, and he proceeded to lose every spectator in the cafe. None of them, of course, had read the book that was being discussed- that wasn’t the draw. The draw was the life present in the youthful doctor, the thrill of the collected and private tailor Garak losing any of his poise and mystique, and, of course, the illicit bets. It was rumored that one of Dr. Bashir’s friends had made thousands of dollars from predicting the outcome of the literary arguments, though of course the honorable barkeep would never confirm or deny such a thing.

At his table, the doctor reached the final pitch of his argument. “So you see, my dear Mr. Garak-” again, money exchanged hands under tables all around the restaurant, and the official tally was updated- “those ships don’t represent the end of the world. They represent a beginning.” The doctor searched for any hint of emotion in the tailor’s face, but he seemed to be unmoved. Bashir’s eyes squeezed closed, and when he finally opened them again they glimmered with tears in the tentative rays of unseasonable sunshine. “Elim, those ships represent hope.”

Never before had the cafe been so silent. Nobody who knew anything so much as dared to breathe out of turn as slowly, ever so slowly, the tailor brought his hand forward to rest atop the doctor’s. “Julian,” he murmured, with the faintest hint of a genuine smile, and when the doctor sighed in relief and victory, the rest of the cafe sighed with him.

Gradually, the soft clinking of dishes and the hum of conversation returned to the restaurant. Bashir and Garak continued their lunch as Julian and Elim, and anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s could tell you exactly why.


End file.
